


There Is Nothing New Under The Sun

by AllthingsnovelyFics



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Smut, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Lucid Dreaming, M/M, More like an alternate dream universe, POV John Watson, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-A Study In Pink, Sharing a Bed, There are brief mentions of, no one actually portrays homophobia however, not so platonically later, platonically at first
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-09 20:09:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4362515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllthingsnovelyFics/pseuds/AllthingsnovelyFics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That night as he was falling asleep, something Sherlock had said a few days ago drifted in John’s mind: “You didn’t have any flashbacks last night, did you? You slept very quietly.”</p><p>John hadn’t had a flashback yet in his new bedroom; including the night they had shared Sherlock's bed, he had had three full night rests in a row and was feeling quite rested. Closing his eyes, he sleepily remembered some recent dreams and thought about a pattern that seemed to be forming. The dreams of the last three nights (spent in his own bedroom) had been almost identical; that normally only happened with his nightmares. But these had been the furthest things from flashbacks and never disturbed his sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 30th January, 2010

[ ](http://tinypic.com?ref=4qj6rq)

Leaving the vaguely oriental sounding music of the restaurant, Sherlock and John walked outside to find the pavement mostly deserted; it was the middle of the night, after all. For late January, it was fairly warm, but the air was still brisk enough to be refreshing.

John looked over his shoulder as they went. Sure enough, the paint of the bottom third of the door handle was more worn than the top, since Chinese Londoners, who are usually short, frequented the place; as Sherlock had explained on their way there, this meant it was a good Chinese restaurant.

“You okay to walk?” Sherlock asked. John had to pick up his pace, but not too much.

“I think you proved that earlier this evening.”

They shared a grin.

“No point in calling another cab; Baker Street isn’t far from here.”

“Yeah. I’ve had enough to do with cabs for one day, haven’t you?”

Another shared grin.

John briefly walked behind Sherlock to make room for a couple passing by. As they fell back into step, he said, “For someone who doesn’t eat much, you sure know some good restaurants.”

“I know everything about London.” Sherlock walked as if he were a king.

Within two more minutes, Baker Street came into view. John’s leg was feeling pretty good, but he was exhausted and the word “home” would have sounded like music to him had anyone said it. They could now see Speedy’s awning. _Home_. The thought had quietly alighted in his brain and made a nest there without him quite realizing it. _Baker Street is my home now._ _I haven’t even spent a night there yet, but it does feel like home._

It occurred to Sherlock to get the other key to the front door for John from a small table next to Mrs. Hudson’s door; as practical as that was, they had gotten distracted earlier. As it was long past midnight, Mrs. Hudson was already asleep, but before going to bed, she hadn’t been idle. The boys found the living room couch neatly covered in sheets and a thick blanket with a firm pillow at one end. With everything that had happened since first visiting Baker Street just that afternoon, John hadn’t had time to move into the bedroom upstairs, much less to prepare sleeping arrangements for himself. On their way home from the restaurant, neither of them had even thought about John going back to his old bedsit to sleep; he really wasn’t up to going back out on the streets again that night. John smiled at the sight of the couch and sat down immediately.

Sherlock seemed a bit confused at the sight; as to why, John couldn’t guess.

“Um, well, make yourself to home,” Sherlock said, sweeping an arm across the living room as if it were a penthouse, though it was still trashed beyond its normal state by the drugs bust. He started meddling with some of his scientific instruments, putting them back into their proper places, but soon gave up. “We’ll get you moved in first thing.”

John took off his coat. “I thought you said you had to go to Scotland Yard, to finish talking with DI Lestrade?”

“He didn’t say when. I don’t have to go immediately.” Sherlock headed down the hallway to his bedroom. “Use anything in the bathroom that you need except for my toothbrush. Despite the state of the kitchen, I am conscious of hygiene.”

By every other aspect, Sherlock seemed to be superhuman, but John could tell he was tired, too. They called “goodnight” to each other and the flat fell quiet. John knew he should feel grateful for the silence; having had roommates throughout university and close living quarters in the army, he appreciated quiet sleeping conditions. After using the restroom, John sluggishly took off his jumper and shoes, got under the sheets on the couch in just his jeans and under shirt, and laid back.

As nice as it was to finally be supine, he found himself missing Sherlock and they hadn’t even been apart for two minutes. For the last 24 hours, Sherlock had been on his mind nearly constantly, even before John had known his name: _chemist Mike’s introducing me to, madman, weird, new flatmate(?), brilliant, Sherlock Holmes, how do I spell that, has a weird blog, solves crimes, knows everything about me, possibly gay, is an idiot, his brother is the British government, knows some good restaurants_. They had already spent a lot of time together during their short acquaintance, so he felt that they had parted ways for the night abruptly, though there hadn’t really been anything terse about it. Sherlock was nothing like what John had been expecting to come from Mike’s recommendation of a flatmate, but he realized that anyone else would have been extremely boring in comparison.

He turned over for the third time; his mind couldn’t seem to shut off.

John thought over everything that had happened: seeing the flat, examining Jennifer Wilson’s body, leaping across rooftops, shooting the cabby, and their two dinners in nearly as many hours. He wouldn’t hesitate to say that it had been one of the best days of his life, certainly the best in a while. There would obviously be times when he and Sherlock wouldn’t get along like all flatmates; they had already argued and bantered enough to pass as brothers. Even so, John hadn’t felt this much at ease since his last night in the barracks, surrounded by his friends, before getting shot. He still missed James, Bill, and his other mates, but he felt like this was a good step towards moving on from that life.

He glanced over to the living room table, where his cane was still hanging on the back of a chair, where he had left it, for the second time that night, before running after Sherlock without his leg giving him any trouble. He smiled.

While he felt at ease, John couldn’t get comfortable physically there on the narrow couch. His bad shoulder was still bothering him and he felt like if he turned over in his sleep, he would fall off. His rough jeans didn’t help matters, either.  _Sherlock told me to make myself to home…_ he thought, considering his options. Well, option. _If his bed is big enough, maybe he’d let me share…_

John attempted a slightly different angle on the couch and counted some sheep, but soon gave it up, kicked the blankets off, and stood. He stripped the couch, folded the linens in neat squares, and stored them in a closet near the bathroom where they looked like they might belong.

Before he could dither for very long at his flatmate’s bedroom door, Sherlock said from within, “Yes, John?”

He bristled, but opened the door. Sherlock’s room was very neat and what decoration it had was minimalistic and somewhat science related. Sherlock himself lay completely straight on his back in bed wearing an old pair of pajamas, his hands in the same pose that they had been when John had found him on the couch with three-patches-worth of nicotine in his veins. Now, however, he looked calm and relaxed, though he had obviously been in thought before he had heard John in the hallway.

John coughed. “Hey.”

_“Yes?”_

John opened the door a bit wider. “Um, I appreciate what Mrs. Hudson did for me with the couch, but it’s not playing nice with my shoulder. Not much room, and all that. Er, so-”

“Get in.” Sherlock gestured with his head to the empty spot next to him. It wasn’t possible for him to have been more matter of fact. He had skipped right past John’s inevitably awkward request, but John still felt awkward.

“Are you sure?”

“Why not? Unless you’d rather me sleep on the couch?”

“No, I’m not going to kick you out of your own room,” John said, rounding to the other side of the queen-size bed. “I just don’t want to be a nuisance.”

“As long as you don’t snore or sleep violently.”

John chuckled as he got under the blanket. “I don’t. If I did, I would have had it from my army mates.” The bed was warm, but not suffocating, and felt very clean. He paused before leaning back, considering. _I should probably warn him…_ “Ever since being invalided, I’ve had flashbacks just about every night. Some are worse than others, but if I bother you, go ahead and wake me up. I won’t mind.”

“Alright, but I may or may not sleep. I’ve never had much of a sleep schedule, so I do most of my sleeping during post-case crashes. I don’t particularly want to sleep, but I know I should after such a long day.”

They fell asleep within minutes; their voices had been fading from the beginning of the conversation. Soon, the sun rose, but neither noticed.


	2. 31st January, 2010

Late that morning, John woke up to an empty bed, which, he supposed, made things less weird. When he first became conscious, he knew straight away where he was and why, but he wasn’t embarrassed. Just waking up in his flatmate’s bed: nothing more than that. He sat up and rubbed his eyes; it took a full minute before all of the details of the previous day came rushing back. It had been insane, or, at least, the kind of thing you only hear about in blockbuster movies. But it had happened to _him,_ of all people.

Not only the serial killer case, but Sherlock had happened to him, as well. He continued to be the main theme of John’s thoughts. After all, Sherlock had made him feel like he had had a purpose; sure, John’s medical knowledge had only been useful for about a full minute, but he had saved Sherlock and brought down a maniac cabbie. John was finally feeling alive again. When he realized this, something warm settled into his stomach; he couldn’t name it, but it was certainly affectionate. They hardly knew each other; he couldn’t call it love, not yet. But it was headed in that direction and he wasn’t going to do anything to nip it in the bud – for better or worse.

 _Snap out of it, soldier,_ _thinking about nothing but your flatmate while sitting his bed._ So he heaved himself up as quickly as his sleep-heavy muscles would let him; though he was stiff in some places, he noticed that his limp had not returned. After a badly needed shower, John found that Sherlock was gone and hoped that he had gone to NSY for Lestrade’s sake. Mrs. Hudson stopped in to see how he was doing and discuss the rent; he had never met a nicer lady and enjoyed getting to know her.

John eventually noticed a slip of paper containing sloppy yet somehow elegant handwriting on the kitchen counter: Sherlock would be at Bart’s for the rest of the day since there was a new liver available for him to see. There were also contact details for a team of movers who would give him a discount.

“Yeah, good,” he said under his breath as he realized how much money Sherlock’s connection would save him. _Not that I have that much to move, but it’ll definitely be helpful._ The team was available later that morning, which was lucky, as they seemed to be pretty busy. His shoulder hurt just watching them carry his bed frame and mattress up all of those stairs, but he was able to carry some boxes, so he didn’t feel useless the whole time. They were efficient and handled everything with care; John was completely moved in within an hour. When they were gone, John sat on his newly made-up bed. _Now it really does seem like home. All of my stuff in a flat that actually feels lived in._

Sherlock came home later that evening, toting a heavy-duty sack with a radioactive warning label as if it were merely a grocery bag; indeed, he stored it in the fridge.

“Do I want to know?” John said, looking up from his book. He couldn’t place the smell, but it was definitely something biological.

“I’d imagine not.”

“So, now that you’re not on a case, are you going to eat something?”

“Order whatever you want, but I’m not really hungry. Might eat in the morning.”

John swallowed his medical lecture and instead said, “I’ll hold you to that. Where’s the phonebook?”

Once John had sat down with his Thai takeouts, Sherlock briefly pulled away from whatever he was doing in the refrigerator to say, “You didn’t have any flashbacks last night, did you? You slept very quietly.”

John furrowed a brow and thought about it. “I guess not. That’s a first, ever since I was invalided. I actually can’t remember what I dreamt about. I slept well, anyway.”

Sherlock smiled at him before examining something awful looking in the freezer.

After they finished their respective kitchen activities, they wordlessly settled down in the living room. They started watching telly at some point, though both eventually turned to their personal electronics. Glued to his mobile, Sherlock scrolled purposefully and tapped away, going at least 50 words per minute. John booted up his old laptop and went to his blog, somewhat less reluctantly than usual. Now that he had Sherlock – _no, now that I_ know _Sherlock_ , he thought – he finally had something to write about. He made a short update and decided to save the details from the previous day for a full blog entry. The case of the pink lady and her pink suitcase and pink mobile – certainly a study in pink – would make for an interesting story. Ella would probably think he was out of his mind, but that was beside point. _Something has happened to me._

When John stood up and said goodnight, Sherlock said, “I think I actually will sleep tonight. You seem to be rubbing off on me, as it’ll be the second night in a row.”

“You did sleep last night?” John asked. He hadn’t noticed Sherlock move at all the night before, but he had assumed it had been because he was absorbed in his thoughts and had no need for tossing and turning.

“Surprisingly, yes. It _is_ nice to catch up… sometimes.”

“God forbid you actually give in to your body’s needs,” John said good-naturedly, though he thought it sounded a bit harsh once the words were out. But Sherlock chuckled and agreed.

It was a relief for John to climb into his own bed that night. The room, of course, was unfamiliar, but it wasn’t nearly as depressing as what he had gotten used to over the last two months at his miserable old bedsit. It was quite nice, actually. A little on the small side, but that didn’t bother him. His bed, desk, and dresser didn’t take up much space and the closet accommodated him just fine. What did bother him, however, that first night he spent in his new bed, was how much he missed Sherlock’s presence next to him.


	3. 4th-5th February, 2010

The week passed slowly, though not in a bad way. John and Sherlock continued to get acquainted, but there already was a sense of familiarity about them. As John predicted, they did get on each other’s nerves for various reasons and they did disagree on many things. Even so, he found that, during most of their arguments, they were smiling, if not in battling for dominance on a topic, than just for the sheer fun of the argument.

DI Lestrade didn’t have any cases that he needed help with (or, that he admitted he did), so Sherlock was stuck in the flat for the majority of the week. He became the mid-thirties equivalent of a grounded teenager. John was disappointed, too, as he was looking forward to working with the police again. More than that, though, he couldn’t wait to see Sherlock in action again; he had never seen anything like him when he figured out half of the case based off of Jenifer Wilson’s jewelry and lack of a mobile phone. _Extraordinary_ didn’t begin to describe him.

Sometimes when they got especially bored, they would play Cluedo; it never ended well, but they kept trying to distract themselves. They would also take rides around town, which usually turned out better. Today, however, Sherlock had nearly gotten in a fight while hailing a cab; John ended up having to grab him by his oversized coat collar and drag him back through their front door. Sherlock had been so desperate to get out of the flat; they couldn’t go for a walk due to the heavy rain, so they ended up where they started, except now thoroughly soaked.

That night as John was falling asleep, something Sherlock had said a few days ago drifted in his mind: _“You didn’t have any flashbacks last night, did you? You slept very quietly.”_ John hadn’t had a flashback yet in his new bedroom; including the night they had shared in Sherlock’s bed, he had had three full night rests in a row and was feeling quite rested. Closing his eyes, he sleepily remembered some recent dreams and thought about a pattern that seemed to be forming. The dreams of the last three nights spent in his own bedroom had been almost identical; that normally only happened with his nightmares. But these had been the furthest things from flashbacks and never disturbed his sleep.

The dreams were about him and Sherlock, but things were different. They were dressed in sharp suits that, at the same time, looked somewhat ordinary; he supposed it was the fabric that made them more casual. They wore different suits in every dream and John was no historian, but he thought they looked very old fashioned, maybe from a hundred years ago. Sherlock’s hair was slicked back, which made him look more mature. John recalled being able to feel a mustache on his face; the dreams were detailed enough to provide him with then-stylish facial hair he didn’t normally have. They looked completely the same otherwise.

Nothing much had happened in the dreams; they had just been sitting in an old-fashioned version of 221B, much like they often did in the real life 221B. Instead of the sounds of cabs, engines, and angry horn-blowing outside, there was the occasional whinny of a horse and constant foot traffic.

John fell asleep with the smell of gas lamps nearly in his nostrils.

~

“Good morning, Holmes.”

“And a good morning to you, dear Watson,” Holmes said as he descended the stairs. He picked up the teacup from the tray Mrs. Hudson had already set out and his clay pipe from the mantle. “I am going out in a bit, which explains why I am already dressed. Would you care to accompany me?”

“Of course.”

“Then you’ll need to change out of your nightshirt.” They grinned at each other.

 _Something is not right_ drifted into Watson’s mind, but he didn’t stop to consider. Holmes sat in his chair nearby, reclining luxuriously.

Watson turned to the fourth page of his newspaper. He hadn’t really been reading it; the words kept blurring as if he didn’t know how to read. _Not right…_ he thought again.

“You slept well, I trust?” he asked, skimming the page before looking up.

Holmes grinned at him. “Like a babe.” Watson blushed a bit before smiling back with mischief in his eyes.

~ 

When John woke to his alarm clock, he still felt the blush. Sherlock had looked very nice in that suit, sure, and the ways they had spoken and looked at each other… well, it hadn’t left much to the imagination.

The dreams were detailed, but they were so brief that the details almost went unnoticed. He knew time didn’t work the same way while dreaming, but it felt like five or ten minutes went by in the dream and the rest of the night was entirely dreamless. For the past four nights, that scenario in 221B was the only one to ever appear in his dreams. Before being invalided home, when the flashbacks began, he had normally had several dreams per night, one transitioning into the next, often getting stranger and stranger; usually, he couldn’t remember much about them. But four nights in a row he had had incredibly domestic dreams that took place around the Victorian era.

Nothing much had happened in these four dreams. Sometimes they didn’t say anything, just enjoying each other’s company. Sometimes Holmes was telling him some very scientific gibberish and he would nod along in agreement. Sometimes they talked about past cases that didn’t really make sense once John woke up; they weren’t dreamlike nonsense, exactly, but involved concepts he didn’t recognize. He had not dreamed about a single argument.

When he was “Watson,” as the Sherlock in his dreams called him, John found that he had no recollection of his 2010 self. His thoughts gained more and more clarity with every night. By his fourth dream, he was able to think about what he was going to say before he said it, unlike normal dreams where most actions are automated, no better than watching a movie.

John used words he didn’t know, both in conversation and in his thoughts. Names drifted into his mind that he assumed were either patients or friends; most of whom were unfamiliar, though he did recognize Stamford and his sister, who he called Harriet instead of Harry. Other thoughts included his medical practice, things he had read about earlier (though he never was able to read while dreaming), what they were going to have for supper, and Holmes. Mostly Holmes, in fact: the way his eyes looked in different lights, what sort of mood he was in, some acrid smell coming from the kitchen that he had caused, or simply how brilliant he is.

He called the Sherlock in his dreams “Holmes,” as well as in his waking thoughts to differentiate between his two Sherlocks. _No_ , he had to remind himself while puzzling over his Victorian consciousness, still sprawled in bed. _They’re not MY Sherlocks._ Despite Holmes and Watson’s innocent discussions, John had the feeling that the two men were romantically involved. During lulls in conversation, his eyes would explore Holmes’ clothes; John thought he had been doing this subconsciously because he liked what he saw, but it very well could have been Watson’s doing. As John was able to remember his in-dream thoughts more and more with each night, he realized Watson would have rather romantic thoughts about Holmes, as well as his general observations about his moods and the ways his eyes looked… which, it occurred to him, could also be considered romantic. The strongest piece of evidence was that he – Watson, that is – had blushed at the notion that Holmes had slept well because of _him_.

John sensed an even stronger attraction when he was with Holmes in his dreams than when he was with Sherlock in real life; the difference being that the attraction felt resolved, somehow. Watson had his Holmes, but John didn’t have his Sherlock. In reality, possessive pronouns could only be used in phrases like “my friend” or _“_ my flatmate.” Sherlock wasn’t _his_.

In real life, they weren’t a couple. He doubted they ever would be, no matter how much John hoped; they hadn’t known each other a week and yet John _yearned_. Sherlock was married to his work and that was that. But John’s mind wandered, which is why it confused him that the dreams never showed what went on upstairs. He figured that was their bedroom, as Holmes had come down the stairs in the morning at the beginning of his latest dream.

John knew that homophobia had been raging in those times; in his second dream, Holmes had mentioned the recent assassination of Tsar Alexander II. After looking up that date on Google, he figured the dreams were taking place around the turn of the 20th century, assuming the timeline there was similar to real-life history. The dreams took place in a time where homosexuality was a crime, but why did his dreams conform to that standard of secrecy? It wasn’t like it was a film that cut away when a kiss got passionate. While he did have free will similar to real life, his dreams were like a play: the scene seemed to begin and end right on cue. For some reason, he never felt the inclination to "break character" during the dreams, to change up the scene. They were his dreams, damn it, but his brain was keeping things rated U. Why did they always have to be so vanilla? Mrs. Hudson never appeared and they only discussed cases, never actually leaving the flat to solve any. There were never any policemen or clients bursting into their living room like Lestrade had done on Sunday for that serial murder cabbie case. Who were they hiding from?

The least John’s subconscious could do would be to throw him a bone every now and then.


	4. 5 February, 2010

Another quiet day faded into another quiet night, though Sherlock would have said _boring_ rather than _quiet_. John knew he should probably be looking for a job since his army pension wouldn’t last him forever. While Mrs. Hudson was very understanding about his situation, he didn’t want to be a burden. But he was only two months out of Afghanistan, after all. John didn’t want to acknowledge it, but he was still recovering, physically and mentally. Only last week he had been leaping across rooftops, but that chase around London caught up with him later.

The sound of the door and feet on the stairs closing downstairs woke John early that morning; his ears were still attuned to the smallest of noises. Sherlock must have come in from one of his nightly strolls. John considered going back to sleep, but, as ridiculous as it seemed, seeing Holmes in his dreams wasn’t enough; he missed his ( _no, not my)_ Sherlock. His dreams had a created a new normal for him, though, since Holmes and Watson acted more openly affectionate towards each other. Indeed, just that night John’s dream had still been vague, though towards the middle of it, there had been more detail. He was able to remember Holmes and Watson’s conversation about the political situation in Russia and the Tsar’s funeral, though he couldn’t remember any of his (or rather, Watson’s) thoughts like he had the previous night. Towards the end of the dream, things seemed to lose detail, or at least the details didn’t survive in his memory. The last thing he remembered from it was that Holmes had been tenderly stroking Watson’s ankle with his foot. John realized he had woken up still smiling and with a pleasant tickling sensation in his leg.

Therefore, when John saw his flatmate sitting at his microscope, he had to refrain from hugging him.

Instead, he waved as he walked by. “Morning.”

“Hello,” Sherlock didn’t look up, but his voice was pleasant. There were no new experiment that John could see, though there was something of a rather gross shade of brown under Sherlock’s lens.

The sight of the makeshift laboratory – and the bedraggled scientist trying to busy his mind in it – momentarily distracted John from his thoughts about his new nightly routine. His mind returned like a snapped rubber band, churning over the details and trying to forget Holmes’ affectionate touches that he could still almost feel dancing over his skin.

John got the kettle boiling and started rooting around for today’s new location of the tea. It was usually either a cupboard above or next to the stove – you know, a sensible place – but it tended to migrate whenever Sherlock was in charge of making tea, which he had already done for himself before John had come downstairs. All of the normal tea locations turned up empty. As he searched, his mind buzzed on. _This is getting weird. I should probably tell him. Maybe he’ll understand what’s going on. He probably has some dream science stored away in a dusty corner of his brain._

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock said, though John could tell he was still halfway in thought.

“Nothing, just looking for the tea.”

“Freezer. I’m testing whether the cold makes a difference in the taste.”

John opened the freezer door. Sure enough. _Oh, well. It can’t have done that much damage._ He put the kettle on to boil, though at a higher temperature than normal.

“I meant, something is on your mind,” Sherlock pressed. “You’re not very talkative; usually I have to turn your volume down in my mind a bit when I’m working.”

Choosing to ignore that, John got his mug from the cupboard. “Oh. Just thinking about having some weird dreams I’ve had lately.”

“Not flashbacks. I would have heard. I sleep very lightly when I do sleep.”

“No, not flashbacks.”

Silence. “Do you want to talk about it?”

John wasn’t sure if he had heard right. But a look at Sherlock’s face said he had. He knew Sherlock could mimic emotions without actually feeling them. But this wasn’t a façade. He saw genuine concern in his face, which was no longer hidden behind the microscope. _Sociopath, my arse._

“I know the affect dreams can have on the mind,” Sherlock continued, “especially when they’re unpleasant. For being mere figments of the imagination, they can sometimes feel very real.”

“I’m fine, Sherlock. They’re not bad dreams. I don’t want to worry you.”

Sherlock smiled in what may have been relief. “Tell me, then.”

“It’s… weird… like I said.”

“Since when has ‘weird’ ever put me off before?” He gestured vaguely to his makeshift laboratory to help prove his point.

“Well, never, bu-”

“Are you dreaming about that TV show? _Poirot_ , wasn’t it _?_ I saw it on your Netflix recently watched list last night. Takes place in the 1920s, I believe.”

John laughed, feeling embarrassed that Sherlock had found out about his attempt to understand crime scenes better. “No: wrong time period, but close.”

“’Close?’ I need more information than that.”

“Stop trying to deduce me. I’ll just tell you. It’s just… I’ve had five dreams in a row this week where we… you and I, that is… we’re living in what I think is London in the 1800’s. We just sit around the flat and talk as usual… but we’re wearing old-fashioned suits and there’s no modern technology and the flat is decorated completely differently. There’s always a fire going and we drink tea religiously. We don’t go on cases, but when we do any talking, it’s more formal and we discuss your old cases, things going on in other countries, and random thoughts. That’s all of I’ve been dreaming of for most of this week. They’re all really short and nearly identical and I’m just… kind of confused. People don’t normally have five dreams in a row that are so similar, do they?”

Somewhere along his discourse, John looked down at his cup of tea, trying to find the right words so that he wouldn’t reveal any of the mutual affection that he could feel as his Victorian counterpart. When he finished, he looked back to Sherlock, who he could tell had barely blinked since John had begun. He looked deep in thought, the mysterious brown stuff under his microscope lens long forgotten.

“So… what do you think?”

“I think… that’s it is _quite_ weird.”

John smiled at Sherlock’s word choice. “D’you think it’s from watching _Poirot_? I don’t watch it all that much and it’s not like any of the characters or storylines are involved.”

“I agree; completely unrelated. It’s a mystery, indeed. Even so, I prefer you having weird yet pleasant dreams over flashbacks.”

“That hasn’t happened in a while. The nightmares stopped once I moved into Baker Street. My last one was during my last night at my bedsit.”

Sherlock  snapped his fingers. “That’s it,” he said, with a mock expression of inspiration. “Perhaps the friendly ghost of 221B haunts you at night, replacing your nightmares with dreams of Victorian domesticity.”

They both laughed.

“Anyway…” John said, “I… actually wouldn’t mind if you ran a little experiment on this. I’m really curious about how long this will continue, if anything changes, stuff like that.”

Sherlock’s eyes brightened. “You’ll have to give me a full report every morning at breakfast. Every detail, no matter how insignificant.”

“You’ve got it,” John said, shaking Sherlock’s hand in a faux business deal.

Sherlock’s spiraling boredom lessoned with the prospect of a new experiment, especially since it was on something different than normal. They lounged around the flat, only occasionally bickering. Sherlock made John tell him more about what he could remember. He also researched reasons behind recurring dreams and spouted them off as he found them, but none of them matched John’s situation closely enough. He made a spreadsheet to mark his findings. Knowing any research of his own would be pointless with Sherlock on the job, John worked on the pink case some more; he was about halfway through.

It was an hour later that John realized what exactly was going on. _Every detail, no matter how insignificant. I’m going to have to tell Sherlock about Holmes’ and Watson’s relationship. Maybe I could just leave it as “They’re good friends, just like we are in real life” if he asks._ After all, John had never dreamed about a kiss or anything; Holmes stroking Watson’s foot with his ankle was the most physical they ever were. It was mostly from their shared glances and subtle remarks that he gleaned romance. He and Sherlock had just as many shared glances and even full on stares. Their conversations often contained innuendo that Sherlock didn’t seem to pick up on. They brushed shoulders more than strictly necessary. People were constantly mistaking them for a couple. _No problem. It won’t even be a lie._

When evening came, Sherlock suggested that they order in from Angelo’s since the weather turned bad. John hadn’t even known Angelo did take-outs and, wrenching Sherlock’s mobile away from him, insisted that he not send an employee out in the torrential rain, but, as faithful as ever, Angelo himself delivered their food. He did accept their generous tip, though, which made John feel marginally better. John made Sherlock eat his whole meal so that Angelo’s trouble wouldn’t be wasted.

John finished his food, pressured by Sherlock into going to bed as soon as possible. Sherlock said he would even go to sleep to get morning to come faster.

“Say hello to Holmes for me,” Sherlock called up the stairs. John gave him the thumbs up before shutting his door.


End file.
